


Reap What You Sow

by Spitshine



Series: The Nogistune Files [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blowjobs, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Fistfight, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Mindfuck, Multiple Pov, Nogistune!Stiles, Non-Penetrative Sex, Not rape exactly but basically the worst consent model ever, Pheromones, Possession, Rutting, Scratching, Secret Feelings!Derek, Soul Bond, post season 3 episode 22, pressure points
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hospital, the nogitsune decides to act on Stiles' feelings towards Derek to sow discord and pain. However, it trusts an unreliable narrator when it assesses that Derek will not be a willing participant. Discord and pain ensue anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reap What You Sow

**Author's Note:**

> See end of the work for trigger warnings/spoilers.
> 
> This story is told from three points of view (the nogitsune's, Derek's, and Stiles'). I'd like to think that my writing is amazeballs enough to make the differences clear, but just in case, each section is preceded by some asterisks:  
> * ***** * - The Fox  
> * ****** * - The Wolf  
> * ******* * - The Human
> 
> Some of the formatting is refusing to come through, but I've been banging my head against the keyboard for forty-five minutes now and I believe the story is all there, so I'mma leave it for now and go drown my sorrows in eggnog. Perhaps will have patience to fix tomorrow.

* ***** *

The nogitsune had loved the hospital, still treasures the memory—the noise of the screams, poisoned bodies falling in the wake of the onis' blades curve its lips even now, even as it plans the next twisted joke—but all that chaos didn't quite go deep enough to scratch that itch.

And it's certainly itching now.

That's the thing about being a trickster. There's never a rest, never enough. Confusion and pain don't satiate the hunger—they increase it.

It had gone deep into Stiles' head, before the split, and knows all of Stiles' secrets. Knows enough to ruin Stiles, the real Stiles who had managed to get himself rescued somehow. The nogitsune doesn't like that. Doesn't like having any of its pawns get away. But what it does like? Revenge, sweet pointless revenge, pain and blood and strife.

It has gotten to so many people Stiles cares about already—Lydia, Melissa, the sheriff—but now, now is time for the crowning glory. The most secret, the most heavily guarded of all his dangerously strong attachments.

Now is time for Derek.

* ****** *

It's probably not right to say Stiles looks good; he looks awful, thin and pale, eyes ringed by the dark red of the chronically exhausted. To be frank, he looks like he's wasting away and doesn't have much left to waste.

But damn if he doesn't look _good _. His eyes are huge and dark; he could be made up for a club. His joints and bones poke through his thin skin, emphasizing the lankiness of limb that's always made Derek wonder what it would be like to be wrapped up in all of _that_. His hair seems to have grown an inch since Derek last saw him—what it must be like to tangle fingers in that mess, god _damn_ —and it sticks out everywhere, making him appear even taller. He smells the same, stronger even, sweat tinged a little sick but thicker, more concentrated. He probably hasn't bathed in days. Derek can only breathe through his mouth and hope his reaction isn't too... visible. __

But then Stiles opens his mouth, lips dry and cracked but still pink and plump, still looking like the only thing they need is Derek's cock between them, and he speaks, dark and low and gravelly, and Derek loses all hope. “Hello, Derek. I see you've taken up chess?” The pieces aren't in any kind of playing position; even Derek is familiar enough with the game to know that. Derek had labeled some of them, left others off the board entirely, and the “Stiles” and “Derek” are conspicuously together, one square apart in an otherwise empty area of the board.

“Just doing some thinking.”

“Oh? Must be pretty interesting thinking?” But it's not a real question, and that's obvious to both of them. Derek, though, is unsure _why_ it's not a real question and raises his eyes to meet Stiles'; they connect for just a moment before Stiles springs. The first punch catches him off guard, and it's a good, solid hit, landing full on his cheekbone and jaw.

He can taste blood, hear the teeth crack. _But this is impossible_ , he thinks, even as he's fighting back, wrestling to get his arms around, unwilling to break out his claws. _He's only huma- Oh._ “You're not Stiles,” he growls, and the claws are out.

It's a real fight now, two supernatural creatures going at each other with everything they have, but Stiles just laughs. “Of course I'm Stiles. I look like Stiles, I smell like Stiles...”

“You don't _act_ like Stiles,” Derek growls harshly, panting with the effort of keeping his wavering control. Even his anger at seeing this... this thing controlling his packmate isn't enough to anchor him today and if he hurts Stiles—even if it's just the shell of Stiles' body, nothing to do with his mind—he'll never forgive himself. So, claws sheathed again, and grapple that motherfucker.

Stiles has no such compunction about hurting Derek, though. He's not pulling his punches, and his nails are sharp even if they're mere human keratin. He's strong, and he's fast, and he obviously knows what he's doing. He fights dirty, drawing blood with teeth and nails and his bony knuckles, and Derek can tell he's losing. Stiles—the demon, he reminds himself sternly—is gaining the upper hand; Derek knows that Stiles, the real Stiles, would never forgive himself if his body hurt Derek, even if Stiles wasn't calling the shots. And Derek can't allow that. Can't hurt Stiles, mind or body.

Talk about a rock and a hard place.

* ***** *

The were is weak. Strong of body, but weak of will. He's clearly holding back though his life is in danger. The nogistune prefers to win, of course, but victory without real challenge, without real danger, is an empty shell. Joyless. Unsatisfying. And it's not like it doesn't share Stiles' propensity for snark. “Is this really the best you can do... _alpha_? Get your ass handed to you by some scrawny human teenager?” It hisses into Derek's ear, one arm slinking around his neck for a headlock.

“I won't hurt Stiles.” Derek shoves one elbow back hard, driving into Stiles' solar plexus and up into its lungs.

The nogistune is gasping for breath but smiles anyway, a victorious sharp-toothed grin. “And you think there's anything left of him to wound? Aww, that's so sweet.” It's hunched forward, curled around its clenching abdominal muscles, but ignores the pain in favor of gripping Derek's arm between its teeth. Hard.

Derek hisses into the sensation, struggling to breathe normally, to keep himself in check, but the nogitsune can tell it isn't from pain. It has a familiarity with all of these emotions and sensations from well over a millennium of wrecking havoc on people's lives, and this is something... darker, more twisted. More... satisfying. It hums to itself contentedly.

“You don't want to hurt Stiles,” it croons, almost to itself. “You want to love on him, you wanna woo him, don't you? Court him, ask his father's blessing? You're so old fashioned.”

* ****** *

“Shut UP,” Derek shouts, rage and embarrassment at his secret being so easily read warring for dominance over his emotions. With even his anger confused about whether or not he's angry, his anchor is a thing of the past, and the wolf breaks free. He escapes the headlock easily as a burst of strength surges through him, twists to face Stiles and stares him down. “I know you know what this means.” His eyes flash, bright and cold and blue. “I've killed before. I'm a murderer. And I know you know who I killed, and why—so don't think I wouldn't kill Stiles to save him from you, you sick fuck.”

“Oh, Der. I'm touched, really. But you know...” Stiles' hands drift down, over Derek's shoulders. One traces the thick muscular lines of Derek's back as the other ghosts down the center of his chest, splayed fingers almost-but-not-quite grazing both nipples on their way to his low belly. “I didn't come here to make Stiles hurt you... no, I thought of a better way to splinter your little group. Your _pack_.” The words drip with derision. “It would wound our little friend so much more, fester and never ever heal, if he felt guilty for violating you... for taking from you the only thing no one else has...” And now there's one hand palming Derek's stiffening cock through his jeans, one hand grabbing his ass hard and pulling his body in tight. “Your consent,” Stiles—no, the nogitsune—whispers right into Derek's ear, so close Derek can feel lips moving against his cartilage, low and intimate as if this was something real, as if they were lovers, and it feels so right, so fucking perfect, pheromones overwhelming his senses, singing _matematemate_ to his wolf, that he has to dig his claws into his own palms and breathe harshly through his mouth in an attempt to distance himself.

The _thing_ is right, Stiles would never forgive himself for this; it would tear first him and then the pack apart. Stiles can't see it, refuses to see it, but he's the heart of them. But—and suddenly, Derek sees the solution. He can take that pain and guilt upon himself, save Stiles and sacrifice himself. It's what he does, really.

“You can't rape the willing,” he growls, reaching for Stiles' face with bloody hands. He buries his fingers in Stiles' hair, fucking finally, and yanks the boy in for a rough kiss, fierce and with no preamble. He hates himself for liking it so much, but he can't help himself, groans raggedly into it as he pushes Stiles against the nearest brick wall. Their teeth clash as they struggle for control, but Derek knows he has to win. It's the only way to keep Stiles from hating himself when this is all over—to make him hate Derek instead. So he wraps one hand around Stiles' hip, one around a shoulder, and pins him to the wall like a goddamn butterfly. Sucks a dark bruise onto the long, pale line of exposed throat and tries to ignore his wolf, howling with joy and completion. _Yesmatemineminemineyes!_

* ******* *

Stiles sits bolt upright in Scott's chair where he'd been attempting to relax. Melissa had insisted that what he needed more than anything was rest, and ordered Scott to watch over him, but, well, it wasn't working. The anxiety of knowing some fucking ancient demon was out there, wearing his face and committing horrible acts in his name, had kept every muscle in his body twisted tight with tension, but this was something different, something worse.

“You okay, man?” Scott asks, looking unbearably concerned. At least _something_ is still normal.

“No... no, something's happening. To my body—to my other body, I mean. I—shit.” Because Stiles is seventeen and has gotten well used to sudden erections at inopportune times, but this? Really takes the cake.

“You—there's a bruise. Just... there.” Scott brushes the side of Stiles' neck lightly. “And it's growing.”

“Fuck my life,” Stiles groans, running for the bathroom and doing his level best to ignore Scott's worried questions from the other side of the locked door.

* ***** *

This was not the plan.

Somehow, the nogitsune can't quite summon the energy to care, because _damn_ , boy. Derek can kiss like nobody's business, and the demon may be a thousand years old, but its body is seventeen and has never been touched by another person. Not like this, not with intent and passion and skill, jesusfuckingchrist the skill. It slams the back of its head against the wall, not even noticing the ache in its skull, just wanting to present as much throat for Derek to claim as fucking possible, grinds its hips forward, desperate for more delicious friction, to feel Derek's hard cock pressing into its hip. “Fucking shit Derek please,” it mutters.

“You've gotten awful polite.”

“You're—oh damn—awful good at this.”

“At _this_?” And Derek sinks his teeth down again.

* ******* *

Stiles peers at his throat in the mirror even as one hand, completely beyond his control, slinks into his jeans. Scott wasn't lying. Those bruises are huge and purple and spreading rapidly. In fact, they look almost like hickeys?

Nothing almost about it, he decides. He can practically feel the hot mouth moving down his neck to his shoulder and that—that's not a bruise, that's straight up teeth marks.

But damn if it doesn't feel good. He shoves his pants down, wraps one hand around his dick, yanks at it roughly. He's learned to get your enjoyment from the supernatural when you can, because the rest of the time, it's fucking terrifying.

* ****** *

Derek isn't going to lie to himself. He is enjoying this, thoroughly, even though he'll hate himself for it later, even if he'll never be able to look the real Stiles in the eyes again. The nogitsune looks and feels and smells like _mate_ , and he sounds like he's having the time of his life, like he could never have imagined the heights of pleasure Derek is bringing him to. And they haven't even gotten to the good part yet.

The wolf preens.

Derek removes his mouth from Stiles' neck and backs off a few inches, smugly noting that Stiles' body follows his own, arching away from the wall as he seeks contact. Derek bends down to grab Stiles' ankles and then, with one fluid motion, brings him to the floor. Stiles' legs are bent at the knee, feet shoved up under his ass, effectively removing any leverage he might have to buck Derek off.

Not that he's trying. He shoves himself up onto his elbows, gazes with dark, half-lidded eyes down to where Derek is nosing at his hard cock through jeans, hands firmly pinning Stiles' hips to the floor.

Derek is desperate for this, to say nothing of his wolf. Smell and sound and feel and look all add up unequivocally to _mate_ and he has got to know about the last sense. Taste. If this is the only chance he gets, he isn't going to waste it. But that doesn't mean he trusts the nogitsune, either, so he leaves his hands where they are and pulls at Stiles' zipper with his teeth. The smell is strongest here, where it's been soaking into the fabric, but it's nothing compared the flood that threatens to overwhelm him once he's staring right at Stiles' naked cock and balls.

He surges forward, spreading Stiles' thighs with his knees, and buries his nose in that thick, sweaty hair. “Fuuuuuck,” he groans, voice sounding broken even to his own ears, and snuffles helplessly, trying to drown himself in that amazing scent. A far distant part of his mind remembers his mom explaining the mate bond once, about how it's all chemical, really, pheremone-driven, that the wolf knows from the scent right away and sometimes it takes the human part of the mind a little while to catch up—though at the moment, it's the wolf that's a little behind on recognizing that Stiles-the-trickster-demon is a separate entity from Stiles-the-mate, identical scent or no.

But it's pretty much all wolf instinct running the show by this point, so...

* ***** *

It doesn't even remember its own plan by this point, but surely it can't have been better than this? Dimly, the thought occurs that it was supposed to be in control, not Derek, but whatever. It will give Derek anything, _anything_ , to get him to stop rooting around down there and get his fucking tongue to work already. It tugs at Derek's head, at his neck, trying to convey its wordless need.

* ******* *

Stiles' whole body jerks and then stills as he comes into the toilet (perfect aim, as always) before the temporary peace of orgasm is torn apart by a vision of Derek, eyes big and dark and desperate, the nogistune's hands—Stiles' own hands—at his neck.

“Shit, Scott,” he yells through the door, clumsily fighting with his pants. “We have to go. Derek's in trouble. The nogitsune! It has him!” He zips up and bursts through the door to see both Scott and Mama McCall looking at him, twin expressions of worry on their faces. “I had a—a vision.”

“You don't think this is a trap?”

“I don't care! We have to save him!”

“Warehouse?”

“Yeah, let's go.” Stiles fishes his keys out of his pocket, only to have them snatched away by Melissa. “You don't understand, he's in dang-”

“I'm not trying to stop you.” Her voice is low, serious, and unreasonably calm. Stiles sends a silent prayer up, once again, that her nerves have been honed from years in the ER. “But you're in no shape to drive as it is, and if another vision hits while you're on the road—no. I'm driving. Scott, take the bike. We want to have more than one form of transportation in case anything happens.”

* ****** *

The wolf spreads Stiles' legs as wide as they'll go and leans in, licks a hot wet line from ass to cockhead, over and over until Stiles is whining and whimpering above him, begging for more, begging for his mouth, begging to come. Derek and the wolf agree that this noise is just about the best thing to ever happen, and start licking at Stiles' hole, too far gone to be concerned with minor details like hygiene. The wolf refuses to be shoved aside now, so Derek is careful with his fangs as he laps with his wide, strong, wolfed-out tongue, getting Stiles loose and wet and desperate. He feels the nails digging into his face, neck, and shoulders, smells his own blood as Stiles scrambles for more, for anything, and moans in self-satisfaction.

He intends to keep at this until Stiles is ready to get fucked through the floor, of course, but when he hears, “Please, Der, please,” being sobbed out above him, he can't deny himself, the wolf, or Stiles a moment longer and lifts his head just enough to suck Stiles down to the root.

Derek is moaning now too, because even the utter perfection of Stiles' smell could never have prepared him for this, for the taste. He shoves the little voice that whispers _It's all fake, you know this will never last_ firmly out of his head and just enjoys himself, licking up and down Stiles' shaft as he does his very best impression of a vacuum cleaner.

Stiles comes in no time, jizz hitting the back of Derek's throat before he pulls back just far enough for it to land on his tongue. He doesn't swallow until it threatens to overspill his lips, wanting to savor the taste of his mate for as long as he can.

* ***** *

The spell of compliance ends the moment the nogistune comes. It immediately begins struggling to get out from under Derek, but even though its mind may be free, its body is still relaxed and heavy-limbed from orgasm.

“No you fucking don't,” Derek growls. “He's already going to hate me for this, there's no way I'm not coming too.” He retracts his claws and digs his thumbs deep into the pressure points in the demon's hips, making it scream with pain as he flips it onto its stomach. Pain, though, it can ignore.

It pushes onto its hands and knees, struggling to rise enough to fight. It looks over its shoulder; Derek is distracted, tugging his pants down and it takes the moment to pivot on its knees, grabbing Derek around the neck with both hands and pushing back, shoving his head into the floor and squeezing hard enough to make anyone dizzy.

Derek doesn't bother trying to wrench free of the hold, just swipes at the demon's arms with his claws before going for the armpits with human fingers.

The nogitsune screams again, involuntarily letting Derek go as its arms go slack from the shoulder down, numb except for the shooting pains running from the wolf's thumbs to its wrists. It curses, but knows it's helpless as Derek once more grapples it to the ground, grabs its forearms and shoves them high up, into its shoulders.

It may not have a hope of physical victory, but it's more than willing to sacrifice that for the chaos it came here to sow.

“He'll never forgive you, you know.”

* ****** *

“I know.” Derek keeps one hand wrapped around both of Stiles' wrists as he tugs the human's loose jeans down just far enough to expose his ass before wrestling his own tight jeans down and pulling out his raging erection.

His raging erection with a hot red knot pulsing at the base, skin stretched tight and thin over the throbbing erectile tissue. He'd been so absorbed in giving Stiles the blowjob of his life, for now and forever, he hadn't even noticed popping his first knot.

_Shit_. 

Even if this is his only chance to be with Stiles, even if he wants to make the nogitsune pay for everything he's done and will keep doing, he can't push a fully-engorged knot into a virgin ass.

He briefly considers his options (walking away without getting off is so far off the table it isn't even in the same room) before spreading Stiles' asscheeks with one hand and slipping his leaking dick between them. He wants to be quiet, doesn't want to give the demon the satisfaction of knowing how good this feels, but can't stop the low moan that spills from his lips as he feels his knot bump against Stiles' asshole, still slick from earlier.

He thrusts raggedly against Stiles, far past the point of control or finesse, and does his best to ignore the litany of things the demon is telling him, the endless ways that he, Derek, is fucking everything up beyond all repair, how he'll never get another chance like this and he's wasting it, not even getting it inside... Derek can only be glad that Stiles doesn't know what the knot means, that it seems he had no conception of matebonds for the nogitsune to have gleaned from his mind.

Stiles' crack gets hotter and wetter as he thrusts into it again and again, leaking an almost ludicrous amount of precome as he digs his claws into Stiles' arms, pressing him harder into the floor and feeling his knot catch on Stiles' rim with every jerk of his hips. It isn't enough, there is nothing in the world he wants more at this moment than to flip Stiles onto his back and lock eyes as his knot locks deep inside his mate—and that does it, the thought of Stiles gazing up at him with nothing but love and trust in his brown eyes—he's coming, pulsing all over Stiles' ass and back, collapsing on top of him.

* ***** *

It feels the wolf fall on top of it, boneless, and notices the control creep back into his arms and legs as the nerve pain from the pressure points fades away. It doesn't move yet, though, takes a few breaths as it takes careful stock of its body and senses, desperately searching its surroundings for any small advantage.

And that's when it hears it. A dirt bike, racing towards the warehouse and then cutting off abruptly; the noise is quickly replaced by the clatter of Scott running up the stairs. Derek's breathing is still rough and uneven, so the nogitsune takes a chance and manages to roll them both, wriggling its pants up so it can straddle Derek's chest, pinning his arms to his sides with its knees and once again getting both hands around the were's throat.

__

* ****** *

Derek is on his back and pinned before he knows what's happening to him, feels the sudden cold air on his still-hard cock, come drying and sticky on his oversensitive knot.

He's shocked back to the reality of the situation as he hears Scott's voice echoing up the stairs. “Derek? Are you okay? Stiles said he saw-” and that's when the oxygen deprivation kicks in and he stops being able to hear. There's nothing to do about the smell, really, but he manages to pull his pants up, painfully shoving his dick out of the way and zipping up, before he blacks out.

* ******* *

The Jeep pulls up just as Stiles sees Scott disappearing into the building. He's out before the car really stops moving, lands unevenly but catches himself enough to stay upright, through the doors and bounding up the stairs three at a time to Derek's loft.

He runs through the door and stops short, crashing into Scott's back as he takes in the scene in front of him. The nogitsune is on top of Derek, cackling madly but even so, the positioning is giving him all sorts of thoughts that are woefully inappropriate given the gravity of the situation, and it doesn't take werewolf senses to see the bulge in Derek's tight jeans. He drags his eyes up to Derek's face, hoping to read what's going on there—but Derek's face is blank, mouth slack and eyes staring.

He notices the hands around Derek's neck—his hands, just like in the vision, though the angle is totally different—just as Melissa comes through the door and slams into his own back.

* ***** *

The nogitsune takes in the utterly clueless looks the three newcomers are sharing and laughs again. “I believe my work here is done. Time to go check on my feisty ginger princess, I think.”

It crosses the large room in a few inhumanely long strides, punches through the window and jumps out.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: The nogitsune intends to rape Derek with Stiles' body, but Derek sets out to prove that you can't rape the willing, even as he acknowledges he's having sex with Stiles' body without Stiles' consent—though not with Stiles' _self_ visibly present.


End file.
